


Control

by Rebecca



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Sex, Bondage, Dubious Consent, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-24
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-19 09:58:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/572049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebecca/pseuds/Rebecca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU for <em>that</em> scene on the island in which the whole situation turns into a sexual staring contest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> My first PWP. I blame the movie. First time for everything indeed.

Silva knew—had hoped, in fact—that Bond was going to be a hard nut to crack. Silva has a master-plan, of course, a mission which means the world to him and more, but that doesn't mean he can't have a little fun along the way. Besides, a genius needs a challenge to prove himself, otherwise he's nothing more than mediocre.

Bond proves to be an excellent challenge.

He is completely unfazed by Silva's attempts so far. Neither Silva's carefully delivered introduction speech, nor the truth about M, nor his revealing of Bond's failed tests and hence his incompetence as an agent does anything to even remotely unhinge him. Silva isn't quite sure whether Bond doesn't believe him, doesn't care, or is just that good at keeping a poker face, and not knowing makes the situation all the more exciting.

Silva resumes his chair opposite of Bond, pulling close, deliberately placing his knee in the space between Bond's open legs. He could easily knee the other man in the balls from this position, hard, but he knows that Bond is trained to endure pain and torture, so the position is more a reminder of Bond's precarious situation, a role Silva uses, than anything else.

Bond just watches him with impossibly blue eyes, impression unreadable.

"Mummy was very... bad..." Silva says, suddenly gentle and intimate, and nods for emphasis. Unexpectedly changing track is one of his most favourite manoeuvres, and he can practically see the wheels turning in Bond's head as he tries to predict Silva's next move. Bond hasn't quite caught up yet, and Silva adds a studied pause, just to keep him guessing a while longer, and a thoughtful "Hmm." He is good at feigning thoughtfulness. Then, slowly, he drops his gaze until it lands on the collar of Bond's dress shirt. The top button is undone and Silva catches an enticing view of the hollow of Bond's throat.

He leans in and reaches out to undo the second button, carefully. He ghosts across warm skin to the scar he knows is there, bares it. Bond follows his moves with a frown.

"See what she's done to you," Silva says.

Bond lets out a small snort. "Well, she never tied me to a chair."

Is the innuendo deliberate, is Bond picking up? In any case, Silva couldn't have wished for a better opening.

"Her loss," he replies. He proceeds to the other side of Bond's chest, wistfully caressing the exposed skin, the line of the sternum, until his fingertips come to rest lightly on Bond's collarbone.

"Are you _sure_ this is about M?" Bond asks, voice low and conspiratorial, and there's just the tiniest hint of a wry smile on his lips.

Oh, Silva knows the stories about Bond, knows that the man has a reputation for flirting and sleeping around and using his sex-appeal for getting what he wants; it's how he ended up in this chair in the first place. And seeing the man in person, Silva can understand the allure well enough. He has, however, no intentions to inflate Bond's massive ego even further. On the contrary, it is time to flip the tables and add his own little twist.

"It's about her," Silva says, because it is, even if Bond doesn't see the big picture yet. Everything revolves around M. "And you, and me," he adds as an afterthought. "You see, we are the last two rats—we can either eat each _other_..." Now there's a picture! Silva is rather proud of himself for that, and he smirks and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at Bond. "Hmm?"

When there's no reaction, he continues, "Or eat everyone else!"

Bond doesn't dignify that with a reply, although he clearly understands what Silva is offering him.

Silva moves his hand and runs it lovingly up and down the side of Bond's neck. The reaction is minuscule, but Silva doesn't miss it: Bond tenses under his touch. Silva can almost taste his victory, and he grins.

"How you're trying to remember your training now!" He playfully traces Bond's collar, dipping his finger in between skin and fabric, and he can feel Bond's Adam's apple bob as he swallows. There's no other reaction forthcoming, though, so Silva decides to up the game a little.

"What's the regulation to cover _this_?" he asks as he lets his hands drop to Bond's thighs, just a few inches away from Bond's crotch. "Well, first time for everything, yes?" He squeezes and starts stroking, slowly, sensuously.

There's a sharp intake of breath in response, but then Silva realises it's another of Bond's not-quite-there laughs. "What makes you think this is my first time?" Bond murmurs.

Silva's eyes widen in surprise, and he can't deny that the unexpected requital stirs his libido faster than Bond's charm and the feel of his well-shaped body beneath his fingers ever could. He knows that Bond is bluffing, must be bluffing, because surely Silva's meticulous research would have revealed if Bond were anything else than the over-active heterosexual everyone believes he is, but oh, does he deliver the bluff perfectly!

"Oh, Mr Bond," he exclaims in mock scandal while his mind reels. If this is a bluff, what does Bond think he can gain from it? What is he playing at?

Intrigued, Silva edges closer, his knee now touching the inseam of Bond's trousers. How much can Bond take? Bond swallows, but his gaze never falters, and he keeps his legs relaxed and open.

Interesting, Silva thinks. Deftly, he yanks Bond's shirt out of his waistband and undoes the remaining buttons. He spreads shirt and jacket apart and pushes them over Bond's shoulders, then he leans back to admire his handiwork. The shirt tangles around Bond's biceps, caught between the chair and Bond's tied arms. It's a look that suits Bond. He's all muscles and sharp angles, with smooth skin made all the more enticing by the scars marring it. Silva wonders how he would taste, but he suppresses the urge to bend forwards and try. Rushing now will ruin his success, and his fun.

Some of his little reverie must have shown on his face, however, since Bond is raising a challenging eyebrow at him, daring him to follow through. In a weird reversal of roles, there's probably an ulterior motive behind this, Silva is sure. He pretends to play along and moves in, licks his lips, and there it is, a quick, assessing gaze moving up and down his body. Silva stops and cocks his head, as if to think, then he reaches into the holster at his side and frees his gun. "Were you looking for this? I apologise."

He drops the gun to the ground and kicks it away so that it slides across the stone floor, far out of Bond's reach. Silva grins triumphantly at Bond, who twists his lips into a half-smile, but if he's disappointed, he doesn't show it.

"Now, where was I?" Silva asks. "Oh yes." He runs his hands across Bond's chest, allowing himself now to revel in the sensation of hot skin, deliciously pronounced pecs, hardening nipples. "I can see why you are so popular with the ladies." He dips a thumb into the hollow of Bond's throat.

"You haven't seen the best part yet," Bond quips.

"Is that so?" Silva lets his hand travel down, following the light trail of hair that starts below the navel to where it disappears into Bond's waistband. "Let me be the judge of that, hmm?"

Bond squirms a little in his seat now.

"Having second thoughts?" Silva asks.

"About not joining your personal vendetta? No." Bond forces himself to keep still; Silva can feel the effort ripple through the muscles beneath his hand. It's this control which Silva admires, which he lusts after.

He turns his attention back to Bond's neck for now, palm pressed flat against its side. He can check Bond's pulse with the heel of his hand—accelerated but steady—and stretches his thumb to caress Bond's strong jawline. "Tell me, Mr Bond," he says, "do you like it rough?"

Bond doesn't reply.

Silva shrugs. "I guess I'll have to find out for myself, then."

He reaches for Bond's left nipple, catching it between thumb and forefinger, and pinches. There's a sharp intake of breath, and Bond's eyes flutter shut for the briefest of moments.

"Ah ha!" Silva cries in triumph. He pinches again, harder this time, and is rewarded with another almost-suppressed hiss which goes straight to his groin. Encouraged, he repeats the treatment on the other side, rubbing, twisting. He can hear Bond breathing now, not fast, not yet, but audible. "You _do_ like it rough," he notes, a little breathless himself.

Adding fingernails to the game, he watches in fascination how Bond's nipples get dark and harder still. He drops his gaze to Bond's crotch where a different hardness is starting to grow, and he feels his own cock twitch in reply. He inches his knee closer, pressing against the promising bulge, stroking it.

"By the way," Silva says, "if you were hoping I'd send the guards away while I have my little way with you, I have to disappoint you." He grins. "They like to watch."

"Good for them," Bond replies, steady but throaty.

"Tut, tut, tut," Silva chides. "Hasn't your mother taught you how impolite it is to always have the last word? Oh..." He puts on a sad frown. "I forgot, you're an orphan. Hmm, I wonder what it takes to shut you up..."

He concentrates on Bond's waistband again, swiftly undoing the button and unzipping the fly. The white cotton briefs beneath aren't a surprise; Silva knows what brand of underwear Bond wears, where he buys it, even how often he changes it. He gets up to yank trousers and briefs down, pushing them over Bond's knees and letting them pool around his ankles.

"Not bad, not bad," Silva comments at the sight revealed in front of him.

A small, smug smile ghosts across Bond's face. Silva resumes his former position, enjoying the visual contrast of his clad leg next to Bond's half-hard cock. He reaches out, touches the head, circles his fingertips around it, then he ghosts down the shaft. With every stroke, Bond grows harder, and when Silva grips his erection firmly, Bond holds his breath. Silva starts pumping, and he sees the muscles in Bonds thighs and abdomen tense from the effort not move into his touch. There's pre-cum smearing across Silva's palm now, and he smirks. He lifts his hand to his face to smell, to taste. He's rock-hard himself just from watching, and the added masculine, musky aroma of Bond makes him ache with desire. Bond is watching him levelly, but his eyes are uncharacteristically dark, and his chest is heaving quickly.

Silva grins and licks his fingers provokingly, but Bond keeps his gaze trained on Silva's eyes. Silva shrugs. "No oral fixation, Mr Bond?" He sounds raspy even to his own ears and wishes he didn't; he knows Bond must have noticed.

He drops his hands and gropes for Bond's jacket pocket, which dangles above the floor at the side of Bond's chair. Bond frowns, but Silva knows what he will find there; his research was nothing but thorough. And yes, there he can feel the metallic packaging, and he closes his fingers around it. Triumphantly, he comes up with a condom.

"Always prepared, Mr Bond, hmm? Should I feel flattered?"

Bond just shakes his head a little in exasperation.

Silva continues, "I get the feeling though that we're missing something." He runs his free hand up Bond's inner thigh. "Or do you like a little pain?" He wriggles his index finger under Bond's testicles, not able to reach his arse from this position, but suggesting the idea nonetheless. Bond swallows visibly.

Oh, Silva has different plans for Bond, but he lets him chew on this for a moment while he stands, kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his trousers. Silva knows he is an impressive sight when fully aroused, even more so than Bond, and he notices smugly how Bond's gaze drops to take him in. He basks in the attention for a few seconds, then he drops to his knees in front of Bond. He fishes a sample-sized package of lube out of his own pocket and grins. "Luckily, I am even better prepared then you."

His face is close now to Bond's cock, and a musky smell wafts up and tantalises his nose. The urge is strong to give in and take Bond in his mouth, to feel the silky texture on his tongue, but he knows that that way, he will lose control fast; even as it is it gets harder and harder to keep a clear head. Besides, he wants to keep watching Bond.

"There's still time to stop," Silva rasps. "I would stop, you know, if you asked nicely." By now though, Silva is sure that Bond is too proud to beg even in this situation, and maybe too aroused to _want_ him to end this in the first place.

" _Could_ you stop?" Bond asks, voice deep, and Silva shudders. Maybe Bond has a point here, maybe the situation has spiraled out of control a little, but Silva prefers to believe that this serves a greater good than just his libido and pride. He opens the condom wrapper and swiftly unrolls the condom on Bond's erection. Bond's eyes widen in surprise. Didn't expect that, Mr Bond, hmm?

Silva opens the other package and makes quick work of lavishing Bond's cock with lube and preparing himself. He doesn't need much preparation, really; the thought of Bond buried inside him, filling him, is almost enough.

Bond watches his every move and follows with his eyes when Silva gets up and reaches around Bond's shoulders to grab hold of the back of the chair with both hands. Then he climbs on top of Bond and positions himself above his cock, balancing on hands and feet. He lowers himself, slowly, and relishes the feel of Bond's tip rubbing against his entrance. Silva wriggles a little, first only to tease and to prolong the delightful tension, then, finally, to take aim. The moment Bond enters him, he feels jolts of pleasure shooting through his body, and he forgets to breathe for a moment. The stretching sensation is just this side of uncomfortable, but when his sphincter relaxes, Silva is rewarded with a feeling of delicious fullness.

He is so distracted by his own lust that he almost misses how Bond's eyes drift shut, head falling backwards. Silva laughs with satisfaction, and Bond looks up again and meets his gaze.

It's that even look, the determination that lies behind it which sends Silva almost over the edge right then and there. Silva stills, draws in a few deep breaths before he trusts himself to move again. He rolls his hips experimentally, sinking deeper still, and Bond hisses. The bastard doesn't even blink, though.

Silva starts moving in earnest this time, cock rubbing against Bond's abdomen, and he imagines how it must look against the taut muscles he knows are there. He doesn't look down, however; there's an unspoken challenge in Bond's expression now that dares him to give in and break eye contact, to succumb to the heat of the moment. It's a close call even so.

Silva shifts slightly to allow himself to clench his muscles without Bond hitting is prostate. He's not going to be the one who comes first. However, as if reading his mind and wanting to prove him wrong, Bond starts thrusting now, using what little space Silva's weight leaves him to manoeuvre. There is nothing Silva can do to keep himself from moaning out loud except tightening his hold on the back of the chair until his fingers hurt. Bond is good, very good, and Silva wonders if his previous assessment has been incorrect; maybe this isn't Bond's first time after all.

Sweat begins to form on Bond's chest, his breath comes out in ragged huffs, but his brows are furrowed in concentration. Silva shivers despite himself. He shifts his weight so that he has one hand free, and reaches for Bond's nipple. It's an unfair advantage he has over Bond who is almost immobilised, but then, Silva has never been a big fan of playing fair. He rolls Bond's nipples between his fingers, twists hard, and Bond bucks beneath him. With a few suppressed grunts, he comes.

There is no time for Silva to savour his victory, however; the friction of Bond's hot skin against his cock, the amazing feeling of being _filled_ with Bond, the groans Bond doesn't want him to hear, all that is enough to spark his own orgasm. He can feel the familiar heat gathering in the base of his erection, feels his stomach tensing, his arse clenching around Bond's cock. Silva bites the inside of his lips, and for a tantalising moment he hovers over the brink, before release washes over him, shakes him

Silva allows himself a moment to bask in the afterglow, catching his breath, then he climbs off of Bond. His eyes fall on Bond's abdomen, which glistens with sweat and drops of Silva's sperm. He looks spent and a little worse for wear, his normally impeccable clothes in wrinkles around arms and feet.

"I should take a picture," Silva muses. "For my records."

But Bond is distracted now; although his eyes are on Silva, his focus is obviously elsewhere. His lips curl up into a small smile.

"What is it?" Silva demands, but he can hear it now: the faint roaring of helicopters in the distance.

"You should have checked my other pocket, too," Bond says smugly.

Silva bends down and rifles through Bond's clothes, and he finds a small, flat electronic device.

"The latest thing from the Q branch." Bond grins. "Called a radio."

It is obvious what's happening here: Bond's backup, alerted by the radio earlier, is approaching. It is also obvious in retrospect that Bond was stalling for time. Silva collects his trousers an dresses quickly. This is not quite how he had imagined his plan to work out. He isn't surprised, exactly, at the turn of events, just mildly inconvenienced by the timing and by his failure to win Bond over. Nonetheless, he puts on a show of being appropriately worried; after all, Bond mustn't know that he _wants_ to get caught.

He retreats hastily, gesturing the guards to follow him, but he can't resist to turn around and blow a kiss in Bond's direction. He really wishes he _had_ taken a picture. The idea of Bond being found by his colleagues, tied to a chair and with a used condom on his cock, however, is compensation enough.


End file.
